In your other life,
you're Thor, the Norse God of Thunder. Not the stuffy old
Edith
Hamilton Thor, either. She only gave you a paragraph in her Mythology. Thor's Day,
Thursday, a day of the week. That's all Hamilton can muster about your
contribution to
the pantheon after babbling for three-hundred pages about lusty Greek gods and
their
post-coital baby-snacking adventures. All nonsense. You are comic book
super-chrome,
spawn of the Silver Age and Journey Into Mystery #83 courtesy Larry Lieber's
plots and
Jack Kirby's pencils. Clad in perfectly pressed red cape, blue tights, and yellow
boots,
your skintight bulges precede you like auspicious growths. With your mighty hammer
Mjolnir you blaze a path through the sky, heaving lightning bolts and bellowing
thunder.
The planets and the stars, Midgard, Asgard, and the Nine Worlds are yours. Your
"mayhap,"
"thou," and "verily" make Shakespearean heavyweights sound like milksops. You are
the
Thunder God. Abandon hope, all ye that mess with you.